Still Waters
by Pereybere
Summary: There’s a new girl in the midst, and she causes a scene wherever she goes. Romance for all characters – and a case, too.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Still Waters

**Disclaimer: **Almost none of these characters are mine.

**Rating: **Eventually M, but I am starting with T.

**Summary: **There's a new girl in the midst, and she causes unrest wherever she goes. Romance for all characters – and a case, too.

**A/N: **Chill out there – I haven't forgot about Lost and Found. Stop throwing stuff at me. I'll go back to it.

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Marciano Liberante refilled his glass watching as Carissa curled spaghetti around her fork, her lovely lips curled into a permanent smile. She'd be the perfect mistress. He was sophisticated, dressed immaculately, drove a sports car and lived in a luxury villa. A woman like Carissa was the one thing he was missing – and she was only twenty four.

Rumoured to be a virgin, too.

Not that he especially believed it. But if others did, he could play the 'I pulled a virgin' card. Carissa was a mystery, too. No one knew exactly where she came from, or even why she came to D.C. It barely mattered, anyway. She'd only been there four months and already, people knew her name. Her face.

"So," he said, refilling her glass, too, "I have a proposition for you, Carissa." Her dark brown eyes rose, glassy with alcohol. She looked lovely, with her olive skin tinged pink from the summery evening.

"Oh?" she said, setting her fork down, as though they were going to walk business. Perhaps it was business. Without money, of course. Carissa's reward would be publicity. Italian women, he had noticed, loved it. Their bodies could be flaunted and their exotic European accents would be heard around the globe. Carissa would make an excellent model, he knew, and she could make her own money off his name. Marciano didn't mind.

"Yes," he said, clearing his throat. "I have a few events coming up within the next few months," Carissa pursed her lips and he interrupted her expression as silent excitement – that perhaps she'd grown up hoping one day, she'd be sitting at a table with a handsome successful man, and he'd ask her to become his mistress. "I would like it very much if you'd accompany me… if I need you…" Carissa lifted her napkin, patting her lips – not that there was any errant food there. She was an immaculate woman.

"Marciano," she said softly, "I'm not a prostitute…" He was stunned by her brisk, unappreciative response. "I wouldn't want to be called your 'mistress' because a dislike the implication that I rely on anyone," she folded her hands atop the table, as though she were conducting a very important meeting. Marciano, unabashed by shocked that Carissa had read his mind with such accuracy, kept his gaze firmly on her face - a wayward glance at her breasts could destroy everything.

"No one suggested that you are a prostitute, Carissa," he said, laying on the charm he had inherited from his father. "Nor would I let them." By 'them' they both knew he was referring to his many staff. He had no doubt that this woman knew what his 'business' entailed. He also knew she wouldn't know just how much of it he did. It didn't matter. She was interested in fashion, socialising, dancing and looking pretty.

"Fine," she said at last, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I'd be honoured to be your date, then." Her accent, thickly Italian, turned him on. She was _proper_ Italian, he thought. Not the clichéd Americanised type, with the feisty sleaziness. Carissa was demure yet beautiful, and as she tipped her wine glass towards her lips, he could almost have believed the virginal rumour circulating.

"Why did you come here?" he asked, reaching out to stroke her olive hand. She dressed modestly – without too much jewels. Carissa looked at him through thick lashes, her full lips pursed into a tight, luscious pout. She wore navy linen and a satin camisole, her dark hair pulled into a clip at the nape of her neck, a string of pearls resting above her clavicle. She represented subtle class.

"I wanted to experience something outside of my little town," she said. "My parents are simple people… they appreciated my art, thought I was a talented little musician… but…" she pressed her fingers to her cheek, crossing her legs. "I would like something else… something _more_." Marciano nodded as though he understood – he was merely being polite, however, for he was given everything growing up. His father, Giuseppe Liberante, had ensured all three of his son's didn't know the meaning of 'simple life'.

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Carissa Romano unclipped her hair, shaking the tresses free, as she slipped into the darkened SUV, kicking her shoes off with a weary sigh. "If I wasn't once a master criminal," she said, "would I be here?" Next to her, dressed in a government issue suit, Special Agent Seeley Booth smirked.

"If is a small word," he said, "with a big meaning. You were always designed to be a criminal." Carissa huffed, pouring herself a cup of coffee from the thermal flask that was tucked between the seats. "Besides, you can't say it isn't interesting… all this deception." Booth started the engine, reversing from the parking lot.

"Oh sure," Carissa said, stirring sugar into the beverage, "there's nothing better than being hit on my a sleazy wannabe Italian." Booth glanced sideways, lifting his eyebrows.

"Liberante _is_ Italian," he said, stopping for a red light. Carissa clicked her tongue, lifting her foot and massaging the arch.

"No, he's American. Born and bred. His _father_ was Italian, and a lousy one at that." Rolling the window down, she coaxed summer air into the vehicle. "I came to America four years ago-"

"When you were _twenty_?" Booth asked, incredulous. "You had everyone, even Liberante believing that you arrived here off a damn boat." Carissa unclipped the pearl necklace she wore, tossing it into the glove compartment. The sooner she was able to shed her 'lure Liberante' outfit, the better.

"Papa wanted me to go to college and I didn't want to," she began casting a luminous glance his way. She ought to have been wildly attracted to her superior, but Booth, with all his charm and ego, was not her type. She wanted a quiet, unassuming guy who didn't think he could have any woman he wanted. "I preferred life on the edge."

"Edge of crime?" Booth interjected.

"Whatever," Carissa said shrugging her shoulders with effortless ease. "Crime provided an income during dire times. I got involved with the Columbians by chance… and when I realised I was good at this whole… what is it you Feds call it…? Infiltration? I decided I might as well benefit from it. Which is why I came to you," she paused, "well not _you_ exactly-"

"Yeah," Booth said, waving his hand, "I got it. You came to the FBI because you thought you were… what? Useful to us?" Carissa nodded. "That's confidence for you. Is that inherited too?" She blinked slowly, running her thumb along the Styrofoam cup she held, leaving an indentation where she touched.

"Fuck you, Booth," she said. "If Liberante didn't want to do me, you'd be screwed." He laughed, for there was something strangely erotic about a demure woman like Carissa, swearing without impunity. She'd been doing it for awhile now, he could tell. "I'm good at what I do-"

"Fucking crime lords? Yeah, there's something to put on a résumé: _Special Talents: _Can get a drug dealer into bed in less than two months and gather enough evidence to convict him without a doubt'. Excellent." Carissa threw him a withering look, disliking the implication that she had 'fucked' anyone. At first, she had genuinely liked Desiderio Galván. He had introduced himself at a bar in New Mexico saying 'Hi, I'm Desiderio, my name means 'longing' and I am… for you…' She had thought his line was the tackiest she'd ever heard. But he was hot. And attentive.

"My résumé," she said frostily, "was good enough for the Federal government." Booth shrugged inside his jacket, his broad imposing shoulders filling the car. He looked good. Tailored and professional.

"Well, you were the only one who applied for the job," Booth smirked, turning to the left, to the grounds of the Jeffersonian Institute – he'd been threatening to take her there all week, to introduce her to the team of scientists who brought criminals to their knees. Since she had once been on the wrong side of the tracks, meeting with people whose career revolved around arrests made her feel a little uneasy.

"Booth," she whined, "I'm tired. Do we _have_ do to this tonight?" The agent killed the engine in a spot that said 'Reserved' – she imagined it wasn't his place.

"Yes. We have a body." Suddenly her interest was aroused. "Pulled out of the river earlier this evening. He's… fresh… we think he might be Mario, but the fishies have been at him, I'm afraid. Which is why we're going to Bones." Carissa had heard the woman's name mentioned at least fifty times since she'd joined the team. Bones, his pet name for the FBI's anthropologist. "I have to warn you, though, she won't appreciate your humour." Booth said, opening the door, "so be gentle with her." Carissa slipped out, smoothing the wrinkles in her linen pants, hating that the fabric creased so easily. "And as for her team… dysfunctional to say the least… but…"

"Relax Booth, I'm not meeting your family." He glared, tucking his keys into his pockets.

"Thank God they're not," he said, shaking his head at the thought. "I'd have Zach strangled in a minute." Carissa glanced at him again, smirking at the look of distaste on his face.

"Is Zach the artist?" she asked, falling into step beside him as he strode towards the automatic doors of the Medico-Legal Lab. Booth scoffed, shoving his hands into his pockets, swaggering like an Alpha Male. She imagined he donned this façade every time he visited the people he called 'The Squints'.

"No! The guy doesn't have an illogical thought in his head. He's Brennan's dog a.k.a. assistant." Carissa chuckled, picturing in her mind a geeky kid with horn rimmed glasses and ten pens and a calculator tucked into his pocket. Booth painted a grim picture. "No," he said again, "Angela is the artist. She's fairly normal. A little wacky and talks too much but…" he shrugged, "she's a good friend to Bones. Bones needs a good friend." Carissa stepped inside the building when the doors breezed open.

"Anyone would think you didn't like these people…" she commented, silenced by the curly haired man with crazed blue eyes as he descended the stairs, swiping his card and glaring.

"Nice going man," he said, sounding less than pleased, "Freaking Saturday night and you just _have_ to find a stiff, don't you?" He threw his hands into the air, barely glancing at Carissa. She folded her arms over her torso, not used to being ignored, especially not by men.

"Jack," Booth said patiently, "meet Carissa Romano," Jack's eyes flickered towards her briefly. "Carissa, this is Dr Jack Hodgins, Brennan's entomologist." Jack held up a latex hand, too dirty for hand-shaking.

"I'm _no one's_ entomologist," he said, straightening his spine, "and unless Miss Romano knows how to dissect waterborne insects to determine exactly how long flesh has been rotting on a river bed, I don't really have a lot of time for coffee and a chat." He was off in a flurry of blue, towards a bench littered with Petrie dishes, charts, pens, and microscopes.

"Charming," Carissa said, strangely amused by him. "He's one of those people that no one takes seriously, right?" Booth nodded once, watching as Jack wheeled a stool across the floor, muttering to himself. "Slightly insane as well… this is a regular fun house…"

"Fun? Honey you're in the wrong place for fun…" Together, Carissa and Booth turned. "Booth's new squeeze?" Angela asked, two cups of coffee in her hands. "I would shake, but…" she shrugged.

"Seems no one wants to shake on an introduction today," Carissa said, "and no, I am _not_ Booth's new squeeze – _Non sono quello disperato._" Angela chuckled loudly. "You understand Italian?" Carissa asked, tilting her head slightly, ignoring Booth's pointed, irritated glare.

"Enough to know that was _not_ a compliment," Angela said. "Booth, swipe your card, I can't do everything you know." She demonstrated that she was juggling the cups and Booth sighed, passing his clearance through the machine, which beeped access. "Won't you invite your friend in?" Angela said, stepping into the quarantined lab. "She's tough enough to handle the abuse."

"Angela, this is Carissa Romano. Carissa, this is-"

"The artist… I got it, Booth." Behind them, the machine beeped – denying access which was accompanied by a growl.

"This machine," Zach Addy said, "is easily duped by _anyone_ who wanted to gain entrance," he swiped the card again, and again, he got a decline. "Have I mentioned this before?" he asked, and Booth nodded, eyes wide.

"You mentioned something about electronic strips once," he replied, "but as soon as you opened your mouth, I zoned out. Sorry Zach…"

"…and," he continued, ignoring Booth, "even though I should be a recognised user, I am _still_ denied access." He stamped his foot, turning the card and passing his eye over it.

"It looks like the machine likes you as much as I do," Booth quipped. Behind the assistant, a tall woman dressed in an open lab coat stepped up, passing her own card through. It allowed her in at once, and Zach followed behind. "Bones," Booth said, although Carissa needed no confirmation of who this woman was. She radiated the kind of cool, unwavering intelligence that was unmistakable. "Where've you been? Checking your mail?"

She turned her artic blue gaze towards him, snapping gloves unto her hand before turning towards the covered gurney.

"I cancelled a date for tonight," she said, "the third this month. Be a little nicer, huh?" Booth shrugged off his jacket, his lips twisted with a smirk, and Carissa noticed that his shoulders seemed to ease in the presence of these people. It was hilarious that he tried to pretend he disliked them – for it was obvious he was fascinated by them. "So," Brennan said, "John Doe number-"

"Not John Doe," Booth interrupted, "Mario Antinozzi." Brennan sighed, slipping her hands into her pockets, her fingers curled into visible fists through the fabric.

"He's John Doe until we officially identify him, Booth," she said, "and your gut instinct isn't going to cut it in court." She paused, turning her eyes to Carissa. "Who are you?" she asked, as if only noticing her for the first time. Booth cleared his throat.

"Bones, this is Carissa Romano," he was growing tired of saying her name, especially since, without the Italian accent, he thought it sounded stupid. "She's working with me on this case."

"Oh," Brennan said.

Carissa watched the woman's assistant, peering into the empty sockets of the newly revealed corpse. His dark hair fell over his forehead and he looked enraptured, fascinated, a person who truly adored their job. "Hi," she said, stepping next to him, no longer intrigued by Temperance Brennan, "I'm Carissa," she said, and Zach straightened, turning his dark eyes towards her. He shifted awkwardly.

"Yes," he said, "Agent Booth has already introduced you." Apparently he could listen and work at the same time.

"True," Carissa said, endeared by his awkwardness. "But he didn't introduce you…" It felt as though everyone in the quarantined lab was rolling their eyes at the brazen forwardness she displayed – every single one of them aware of her attraction towards him. Except Zach himself.

"I'm Dr Brennan's assistant," he said. "Are you the person they've hired to be Marciano Liberante's hooker?"

Behind her, Booth slapped his forehead and groaned.

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Lots of distractions today, so I apologise for mistakes.

Please review!


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **Still Waters

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**Rating: **T, for language, violence, drugs and eventually M for sex.

**A/N: **It's been a few days since I posted – but I have really lots going on. I wish I had more time for this, because the ideas haunt me if I don't get them out.

Also, for those of you who are worried – Booth is _not_ going to be kissing/sleeping with or having sexual feelings for Carissa. Relax.

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"Did Zach offend you?" Booth asked when they stepped out into the parking lot, the summery air pleasantly hot. It had just gone midnight, and Carissa muffled her yawn with her hand.

"Hardly. The guy is so clueless, I just wanted to hug him." Booth drew his brows together, shaking his head, their feet clicking on the asphalt as they walked.

"They've turned you into a monster," he said, unlocking the SUV, "in a few short hours, too. By next week, you'll be a fully fledged member." Carissa pulled her seat belt around her waist, clicking it in place, heaving a sigh as she did.

"They're not so bad. Dr Brennan… she's a tad eccentric." Booth turned the radio on, filling the vehicle with soft rock. Carissa noticed he never changed the channel. "Angela, she's nice." As the Jeffersonian faded from sight, she realised it was easy to see why the scientists there had become such good friends. There was no brown-nosing, no competition. They had their individual fields, and they were all equally good. At the FBI, friends were few and far between.

"She's had a hard life," Booth said at last, as if in defence. "The detachment is a way of dealing." Carissa pressed her head against the window, watching as he meandered through the streets of D.C. "Where do you want to be left off tonight?" Booth asked, shattering her silent reverie.

"I'm staying with friends," she replied vaguely.

"Not one of your criminal friends, Carissa?" he sounded disappointed. "You can stay at my place… I can't have you jeopardising the case." She threw her head back, no more comfortable with her choices in life than he was. Perhaps she could act sophisticated, but she wasn't. She lived in two bedroom apartments, on mattresses, with drug addicts. Her current room mate was called Nigel and he smoked and injected heroin.

Tucking a strand of silken dark hair behind her ear, she crossed her legs. "I'm not a victim, Booth," she said with soft reprimand. He glanced sideways at her.

"I didn't say you were," he replied, "but Liberante is a massive case for me. Everyone is involved, Carissa, even the squints. I'm not having the whole thing fucked up because some druggie sold you out for a fix." It sounded so seedy when Booth said it, all righteous and moral.

"No one is perfect," Carissa sighed.

"Some more than others," Booth said. "But you're right. We all make mistakes." She didn't recognise the area, and when he stopped outside a four storey building with red-brick and high rectangular windows, she was momentarily perplexed. "Lets go," he said, the lights extinguishing when he pulled the key from the ignition.

"Hey," Carissa complained, "you didn't even ask me…" His expression stopped her protest mid-sentence and she wondered how Brennan coped so well with his hard determination. She had a rapid fire tongue, excellent responses. "Fine," Carissa said, pulling on the hem of her camisole. "But just so you know, this is not so you can hit on me." Booth scoffed, locking his SUV, shaking his head.

"As if," he said. "You're not my type." Climbing the steps to the front door, pushing his entrance code, he smirked at the suggestion and she felt marginally irritated.

"Yeah, from what I see, you prefer your women with red hair and fair skin." His hand froze over the key pad, his forehead marring. If he was stunned with this observation, however, he recovered quickly.

"Over the line," he warned, "tread carefully." The foyer to his building was cool and clean, with two leafy green plants flanking the staircase and another next to the elevator. The floors, tiled with alternate ivory and grey slate tiles gave the building an almost masculine feel.

"Is this a bachelor pad for several men?" Carissa asked, following him as he opted for the stairs. When he didn't reply, she sighed. "You're just a barrel of laughs, aren't you, Booth?" He stopped short, his shoe squeaking on the tiles, throwing his head back as if he were praying.

"Carissa," he said slowly, "I'm tired. It's late. How about a little bit of quiet, huh?" She huffed, hurrying to maintain his long striding pace. Hadn't _he_ suggested she stay?

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Brennan felt her hands tremble on the steering wheel as she parked outside his apartment. She always felt this way whenever they delved into a case that excited her – and Liberante, with his cocky media appearance, thought he was unstoppable. What had Booth once said, whenever they were in New Orleans? That she made them unsafe.

Stepping out of her car, she noticed that the light burned in his living room – and at just past twenty to four in the morning, she suspected he was pacing the floors, wound up from the investigation, imaging the glorious moment when the judge would sentence the bastard to life. Or death.

The last case they'd worked together, had ended in victory and she could still remember the look that came across his features when he realised that their hard efforts and sleepless nights had amounted to something. He'd offered to buy her dinner – but she'd had a date that night. Things with Oliver had been going well – especially after the stalemate with David. But he'd been annoyed earlier when she'd cancelled their reservation because of work.

Locking her car, she supposed some people would never understand the importance of crime fighting. Or the importance of having a solid team. Brennan smiled. Her team, which included Booth, worked together with such brilliant efficiency, it felt as though they were pieces of a jigsaw, fitting together – making a shambles become a clear, irrefutable picture.

Liberante might have been a shambles at the moment – and perhaps their clues didn't quite make a picture yet, but it would. If they all pulled together, she had no doubt that they were equally intelligent enough to get the evidence they required.

She heard the television, a late night movie, from outside the apartment door. Lifting her hand, she knocked, listening to the telltale shuffle of feet, and when he pulled the door open, he wore navy sweats and a grey t-shirt, no socks. "Hey," she said, "sorry it's late…" He shrugged, broad shoulders lifting inside the worn cotton. His biceps flexed with his crossed his arms, leaning against the door.

"It's okay," he said, "what's up, Bones?"

Glancing beyond him, she saw a duvet on the sofa, and a body shift beneath it, and suddenly she felt like a fool. "Oh," she whispered, taking a moment to recover from her naivety. "This is very presumptuous of me, isn't it…?" she dropped her eyes, toeing the wood flooring.

"Not unless you come for sex," he joked, "and it's not what you think. Carissa is-"

"Carissa?" Brennan lifted her eyes, her cheeks burning with humiliation. Why hadn't she noticed it earlier? Hadn't she been all over Zach? God, her ability to read sexual attraction had failed her. Not that, she mused, she'd ever had it before. "Oh…" Booth waved his hand.

"She's no where else to stay…" he said.

"Yes I do!" a voice came from the living room, and the television was on mute. "I have friends, but apparently Booth doesn't want to, and I quote, 'fuck up this case'." Booth threw a glare over his shoulder.

"I said _jeopardising_ not 'fucking up'. Come in, Bones," he turned his attention back to her, slipping his arm around her shoulder and ushering her into his apartment. "Ignore her," he warned. "Carissa has no sense of discretion, which is probably why she _was_ staying with a heroin addict." Brennan blinked, surprised that the beautifully groomed woman she'd seen earlier, could possibly have lived in anything except from comfort. "Is everything alright?" he asked again, and she caught a glance of Booth's colleague, tousled and sleepy.

"Yes," Brennan said, "I just called to let you know that our victim isn't your Mario Antinozzi. Zach and I," she paused, "we stayed on and worked on the body. Matched dental records and…" Booth's expression had taken on a kind of interest that signified he was no longer thinking about anything except his job. "He's records matched that of Brent Williams. A known-"

"Brent Williams?" Carissa swung her legs over the edge of the sofa and it was now that Brennan noticed she was wearing an oversized navy t-shirt – not her own. "Are you… sure?" Stiffening her chin, Brennan cleared her throat.

"Certain," she replied, "he was a known heroin addict. He disappeared awhile back-"

"Yes," Carissa whispered, "I knew him." Booth turned, hands on his hips, fingers splayed across his bones.

"Jesus Carissa," he said, "was there anyone from the gutter you didn't know?" She looked wounded, her fingers trembling as she raked her fingers through her hair. "Was he involved? With Liberante?" Brennan watched their eyes meet, a silent battle of wars, and she wondered if there was a little jealousy in Booth's tone – or whether it was imagined.

"Yes," she whispered, "briefly. He bought crack from him. _Just_ crack. Twice. I knew him before I got involved with the Columbians. Our relationship was volatile because… I hate drugs… and… Brent couldn't resist the high." Her voice trembled. "He had so much potential. I can't…" Booth released a hissing breath.

"I don't ever remember a heroin addict who _didn't_ have potential," he said, his tone weary, "it's not like they are started out as train wrecks." Brennan felt her resolve melt in something approaching compassion for the woman on Booth's sofa, whose shoulders trembled silently. She wasn't crying, but her eyes registered a kind of deep shock. "Bones?" Booth broke her reverie. "What else do you have?"

"Just this," she dipped into her pocket, removing a plastic evidence bag which carefully sealed a bullet. "Zach found it when he was working on the bones. It's the only thing we have. But with a name…" she shrugged helplessly.

"Do you know where Williams lived?" Booth asked, turning back to his house-guest. Carissa lifted her head, pressing her unsteady fingertips to her lips.

"I know where he used to live. But it was awhile ago… and addicts… they don't stay in one place for long." Brennan shifted.

"He'll have friends. It's a start." Booth clicked his fingers.

"Exactly. It's a start. Bones and I will work on that. You just make sure you stay close to Liberante, and for Christ's sake, don't tell him you're staying with a Fed." Carissa made a noise that sounded like a click and a hiss.

"Do you think I'm naïve, Booth? Fuck off and let me sleep."

With the television off, the room was plunged into semi-darkness and Brennan stumbled into him, making her way to the door. "I'll pick you up in the morning," Booth said, his hands holding her biceps tight. "How about seven?" With only a few hours to go before then, Brennan saw no point in heading home.

"I'll be at the Jeffersonian," she replied, pulling his front door open. "Sleep well, Booth."

"I doubt it, Bones. I really doubt it."

She didn't know whether it was the case on his mind, or the stunning twenty four year-old Italian on his sofa, but as she got behind the wheel of her car, Brennan decided she didn't want to muse on the subject. At least not yet. There was still much work to be done.

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	3. Chapter 3

**Title: **Still Waters

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**Rating: **T, for now.

**A/N: **Oh, I'm back! I have been so busy my wee honeys and I'm sorry! Forgive me? I haven't even finished my X-Files story – but I felt so bad for neglecting you guys that I decided, since it was my day off, to write a wee chapter for you. Now, appease my guilt, and review!

"Did you get much sleep last night?" Brennan asked, watching summer rain as it slanted against the window of his government issue SUV. Beside her, Booth worked his jaw with the kind of deep aggravation she only saw when he was lost amidst the mystery of a new case. His irritation rarely left space for small talk.

"I don't like the insinuation, Bones," he said, his voice gravely and rough. Her eyes widened in a pretence of innocence.

"What?" she asked, spreading her fingers wide. "I was just asking if..." sighing, she shook her head. "You have a great amount of paranoia regarding the topic of women. You automatically make the assumption that when I refer to sleep, I am talking about sex. Which I am not. Although it does give particular insight into why people always say they 'slept' with someone rather than 'had sex with'." She mused over her own point. "Society," she continued, silenced only by Booth's dark stare.

"Who mentioned sex? I think you've been out manoeuvred, Bones. You said I was thinking about sex, when I didn't mention it, which in itself, proves that it was _you_ who was thinking about it. Which brings me back to my point. I don't like the insinuation. Carissa is young, troubled and quite frankly, not my type of woman." Brennan hummed in her throat, wondering at his hypothesis – and how he was clever than she gave him credit for.

"She is beautiful, though," Brennan said, crossing her legs. She had to admit, even if it was only to herself, that she had spent too much time lingering over the thought of Carissa and Booth. When she'd got back to her office, she'd drank jasmine tea, listened to the radio and tried to come to grips with the dead body they'd examined all evening. Instead, she'd imagined with blushing cheeks, all the things the two agents could have been doing at Booth's apartment.

"I don't deny she is pretty," Booth said, a hint of exasperation in his tone. "But then so is Heidi Klum and I wouldn't want her, either."

"Who?" Brennan asked. "Another of your little FBI girls? Or a lawyer?" He stared at her, almost through her, his lips pulled back in a grimace of disbelief and weariness.

"Just concentrate on the job, Bones. Did you find anything else on the victim's corpse?" She pressed her forehead to the glass.

"His organs were too badly decomposed to determine the state of his body whenever he died. However Hodgins used the remaining flesh and was able to determine that there were still traces of diacetylmorphine in his body." Booth frowned. "Heroin," she translated.

"See, Bones, why can't you just be normal and call it heroin? How many people know what diacet- dia-, the thing you call it, compared to the amount of people who know the meaning of _heroin_." She folded her arms, her chin lifted in tight indignity.

"I'm a scientist, Booth, and if I want to call heroin by it's true form or DNA as deoxyribonucleic acid, then I will! Just because you don't know..." Booth sighed, his knuckles tight around the steering wheel as he turned off the highway.

"I knew the DNA thing," he retorted. "Anyway, what about the drugs? And what time was Hodgins at the lab?" Brennan lifted her eyebrow, arched in reprimanding disapproval. Booth thought her people had no lives outside of their jobs – but it was his macho inability to admit how much he truly respected them.

"He's dedicated," she said haughtily. "Jack thinks the heroin would have been ingested shortly before his death. When he died, the body ceased to function and the drugs never left his system, which was why there was evidence of his usage. I did some digging this morning, and it turns out Brent Williams was quite the model student at school. When Carissa said he had potential, she wasn't kidding. In an IQ test, Brent scored one hundred and forty two. Anything over one hundred and forty is considered genius or near genius. It's tremendously sad that his life was wasted because of a weakness. An addiction." Booth shrugged his broad shoulders inside his suit.

"He didn't die because of his addiction. He died because someone shot him. And as soon as ballistics determine the weapon used, we'll find out who killed him." She was quiet, her fingers intertwined with silent irritation. She wasn't angry or even especially upset. Just unsettled. Troubled that such a gifted mind was wasted. It bothered Booth that she had a steadfast belief that some people were just better than others. It bothered him now, she knew, that he was dwelling on Brent Williams' death more than she might have had he been a homeless drunk. "Bones," he said, his tone warning and she lifted her eyes.

"He could have been someone, Booth. I'm not saying that makes it any more wrong than if his killers went out and murdered someone with severe mental disabilities-"

"C'mon Bones!" he snapped, hating how she spoke with such clinical detachment. "Everyone is human. Everyone deserves the same amount of compassion. Just because you're regretting that someone on the same level of intellect as your Squint Squad is dead, doesn't mean it's any more a tragedy than the bodies found across DC every day." She huffed, her breath condensing on the window.

"I'm not saying it is, Booth," she replied. "I just regret that he could have been the man who found the cure for cancer or-"

"Oh come on, Bones. He was a junkie. A drug-using, criminal who slept on urine stained floors and shot heroin through his veins. He wouldn't have found the cure for cancer. He wouldn't have saved the world. At least," he paused, pulling his SUV to a stop outside a building whose architecture looked bleak in summer and worse, thanks to the heavy rain. "A least no more so than the countless other bodies we've identified. What happened to your rigid rules of seeing a skeleton as a skeleton and not a person?" She frowned, pulling an umbrella from his backseat.

"You just told me stop being clinical. Damned if I do, damned if I don't. Is this case bothering you, Booth?" Opening the umbrella, she stepped out of the car, strangely soothed by the pellets of rain on the canvas overhead. Meeting him at the front of the SUV, he ducked underneath, hands thrust into his pockets. He looked weary – in a way that worried her. Or at least concerned her. She didn't like when the effects of an investigation began to wear on his personality.

"I'm fine, Bones," he growled. "It's a pain in the ass, having to baby-sit Carissa. She's a kid. She's-"

"Not exactly your responsibility," Brennan reminded him, slipping her arm into his, repositioning the umbrella so that the metal spokes didn't bang the crown of his head. Booth sighed and the only sound for a moment was the wet slosh of their footsteps of the sidewalk.

"Yes she is," he said at last. "I have to watch her back because she's young, vulnerable and that's what FBI agents do. She's out there with Liberante now, probably in his bed and-"

"Does that bother you?" Brennan asked, sounding testier than she'd have liked. There was an underlying tone of possessiveness that she disliked – that burned her throat. Booth turned right, leading them along a narrow alley that smelt of decomposing meat, not human, but sickening all the same, urine and general decay. She hated the scent, but the sturdy scientist in her refused to comment on it.

"Yes it does," Booth admitted. "But not for the reasons you might think." Her sideways look prompted him to continue. "My contempt is not because I envy Liberante for touching her. It's because I loathe that he can. That he is so powerful that the FBI need to plant a bright, beautiful woman in his midst. I hate that Carissa is a pawn. I guess I'm too much of a gentleman." He stopped at a door made of iron, pained dark green with the numbers 29 written in yellow, fading paint.

"Or you're not clinical enough," Brennan suggested. "Either way, it's not professional. It's kind and noble, yes. But kindness and nobility sometimes doesn't get the job done." Brennan lifted her hand, pounding on the sheet of metal, the sound of the banging echoing along the walls, sounding dull and deafening. "Pedro Duarte? Open up! FBI!" Booth shot her a glare, and she pressed her lips together. Behind the door, feet shuffled on concrete and the bleak light beneath darkened.

"Who's this?" a thickly accented voice queried, hesitant and weary. Brennan identified it as Portuguese. Definitely Duarte.

"We just want to ask some questions about your friend. Brent? Do you remember Brent?" The shuffling ceased and Brennan listened, wondering if perhaps their one line of questioning had just tried to run. After a long silent moment, the voice returned.

"I don't know no Brent," he said. "Leave me alone, man." Booth sighed.

"C'mon Pedro, we don't care about your drugs, okay. Brent Williams has been murdered and we need your help." Thirty seconds passed before the deadbolt was removed and the door was opened. Brennan watched the man, with red rimmed and slightly deranged eyes as he examined them with the kind of suspicious paranoia that was commonly associated with drug users. He wasn't high right now, she knew, but it probably wouldn't be long before Pedro Duarte required a fix. "Hi," Booth said, flashing his badge. "I'm Seeley Booth with the FBI and this is Temperance Brennan. We heard that Brent Williams used to stay here." Pedro trailed his dirty fingers through his hair.

"Look man, I didn't waste no one and I don't want no trouble. Okay?" Booth slipped past him, into the darkened confines of what was probably once rented office space and what was now squalor for regular druggies. Brennan followed, counting four stained mattresses and eight used syringes. She could only imagine how many others lay in hidden locations around the building. There was a dark dreariness associated with the underbelly of society. "Brent left months ago. I didn't know he was dead." Booth stepped over one of the mattresses, pushing open a screen door.

"What's that smell?" he asked, wrinkling his nose.

"Cassie was sick," Pedro said, twitching nervously. "She had a bad trip." Booth swallowed hard.

"Right. In other words, she ODed, right?" Brennan asked, folding her arms. Pedro's eyes flashed, the first sign of life that she had witnessed within the bleak irises.

"She ain't dead. She's resting." Booth shook his head, and Brennan wasn't sure whether he was disgusted or sad. Perhaps Booth.

"Did Brent leave any belongings?" he asked, careful not to touch any surfaces within the building and Brennan understood, for she was quite sure she had never seen any living quarters quite so dirty before. Not even in third world nations. Even poor people could try to be clean. These people... they just cared about their drugs. The reality of how Brent Williams lived saddened her again, but she wouldn't tell Booth – for he'd be infuriated by her compassion. Even though he always said she needed to have more compassion.

"His drugs went with him, dude," Pedro said.

"I wasn't referring to drugs," Booth replied.

"Personal effects," Brennan detailed, "letters, a cell phone, his wallet? Anything?" Pedro pulled open an old storage closet, removing a black bag. He peered inside.

"There's just a few things. He had an iPod that he stole from Circuit City. But one of the other guys found it and sold it for a score. The stuff that's left... its not worth much." Booth nodded, removing a latex glove and slipping it on before he took the bag from Pedro.

Brennan shifted, the scent of vomit, acidic and pungent was beginning to make her own stomach turn. "Do you know who Brent was associating with before his death? Does the name Marciano Liberante mean anything to you?" she asked. Pedro shrugged.

"I've heard his name on the street. But I don't know him." Booth touched Brennan's elbow, urging her towards the entrance, where even the putrid scent of the alleyway smelt better than the confines of Pedro's home.

"That's all for now," he said, lifting Brennan's umbrella, where she'd left it propped up outside the door. It was only when they were back on the main road, that he spoke again. "To think that Carissa has spent time in there. To think that _anyone_ spends time in there." Brennan, preferring the cool rain that almost cleansed her skin, didn't put the umbrella up. She felt dirty – contaminated. "We should take this back to your lab, Bones," Booth said, gesturing to the bag in his hand. "We'll probably turn up nothing – but at least we'll know how he lived." Brennan nodded, lifting her eyes to the rain filled clouds.

"Which usually leads down the path of how he died." Booth unlocked his car, tossing the bag in the trunk.

"I hope so, Bones," he said. "Before Liberante claims another victim."


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: **Still Waters

**Disclaimer: **These amazing characters aren't mine.

**Rating: **T for now, but eventually M. You'll be pleased to know there is a hint of BB romance in this chapter.

**A/N: **Well, apparently I am feeling inspired today, which is good because I'm back to work tomorrow. Although I am taking my laptop with me and I hope to get some productive Zach/Carissa and Angela/Hodgins romance written too. It's tough integrating romance with hard mystery. Sometimes I want to say 'fuck it' and be really inaccurate. But I usually take the time to make some basic research – so bear with me. I'm trying to be as realistic as possible, here.

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"God," Zach whispered, tapping his latex covered fingers atop the autopsy table, the sound reminding Hodgins of a rhythmic death beat. "This guy suffered such a violent death. After Dr Brennan and I left last night, I started thinking about what could have caused these fractures on his bones. See? Here and here?" Hodgins replaced the lid on his Petrie dish, sliding his chair across the lab. Zach shifted, allowing his colleague to examine the hairline cracks on the victims clavicle. "I think he was strangled. A large amount of force was applied to the bones and they began to snap. He was probably in so much pain when they shot him that he was relieved," Zach sighed.

"Poor bastard," Jack replied, leaning back in his chair. "Booth brought some of his belongings back from the place he was shacked up. According to Angela, it makes for some pretty grim viewing. He had hardly anything in the world. It's hardly surprising that his only comfort in life was heroin." Zach peeled off his gloves, stepping away from Brent Williams' skeleton.

"Apparently Booth's colleague knew him. The Italian one?" he said, crossing his arms. "She led them to his home." Jack scoffed, rolling back to his own station.

"Home? Hardly what you'd call a drug house, Zach." For a long moment there was silence, where they both contemplated Hodgins' comment. Zach opened his mouth to retort.

"It was as close to home as Brent ever got." They both turned to the stairs, where Carissa Romano stood, propped against the railing, millimetres away from setting off the security alarms. She wore an olive coloured suit that complimented her skin perfectly. But her eyes lacked lustre. "He had a tough childhood. Or so he told me." Zach hurried to the top of the stairs, slipping his card through the machine, permitting her access. "Thank you," she said, her gaze falling upon the exposed skeleton. Her expression filled with contemplative sadness, her fingertips stroking along the weathered brow of the skull. Normally Zach would have reprimanded her – fearful that she might contaminate the bones. But Carissa looked vulnerably sad. "Brent could name every element on the periodic table, quote Shakespeare and work out mathematical problems in seconds. Had he continued his education, he'd have been an extraordinary man. But unfortunately he had the most dangerous vice known to man." Zach dropped his eyes to the floor.

"He had the same IQ as me. He could have _been_ me." Carissa lifted her eyes, a small smile tugging at her lips. He noticed the merest glimmer within her emerald eyes.

"I don't think so Mr Addy," she said. "Not everyone is cut out for the hard life. You," she scanned the high ceilings, the cylindrical support beams that held the structure in place. "You were destined for hard science." Zach felt his chest deflate, unsure of whether Carissa was complimenting or insulting him. But he saw no malice in her eyes. "Did Booth find anything at Pedro's place or is he still walking around with a pout like a duck's ass?" Jack chuckled.

"Some of his belongings. He didn't have much." Carissa nodded, slipping unto an empty stool, crossing her legs. Her brash attitude had changed so much in just one night. She looked tired. Behind them, the security system beeped and Angela joined them, tucking her pass into her pocket.

"Hey again, Carissa," she said, her friendly demeanour automatically making up for Hodgins' and Zach's awkward excuse for comfort. "I'm glad you're here, actually," Angela continued. "Brennan said she confirmed the body was Brent Williams' by his dental records and she didn't need me to make a facial reconstruction. But I know you had some kind of... _thing_ with him so I sketched how I thought he might look. For you." Carissa didn't cry, and Angela didn't expect her to, for she had a tough façade that coated her true emotions at all time. She wasn't a woman who fought crime and infiltrated criminal families by getting emotional. But as Angela turned the canvas towards her, Carissa's hardened expression did soften and her eyes rounded a little. "I hope it bears some kind of resemblance. I just followed Zach's tissue markers and..." Carissa nodded.

"It looks just like him. It's... perfect." Zach craned his neck, noticing that the man's portrait looked just as he imagined it would. He had chiselled features and large eyes. He was symmetrical in a way that made men classically handsome. Angela had drawn Brent as a rugged but groomed man. Zach knew he wouldn't have looked so good just prior to his death. Carissa apparently thought so too. "I always knew Brent to be dishevelled, world weary. You've painted him as healthy and happy. Thank you." She unfolded her legs. "Booth will probably want to call his family. But I'd like to do it. His mother... she wasn't the perfect role model. But she'll be devastated by this." Zach reached out, touching her arm and Carissa loosened in response to their comfort.

"You can tell his mother that as soon as we find out who killed him, she can have his remains back for burial." Carissa nodded slowly, patting his hand.

"Thank you," she said again. "Jeanie will, I'm sure, be comforted by all you're doing for her son."

"Hey!" Booth swiped his card, climbing the stairs two at a time. "Have you found anything else or are you just having a long lunch?" Hodgins turned to his dish, tilting it for Booth's amateur inspection. "Nice. Wet sludgy stuff." Jack rolled his eyes.

"We scraped it off the bones and I am examining it. Zach found fractures on the victim's clavicle, consistent with a violent, pre-death attack. I've also completed my dissection of the bugs found on his body. I estimate the time of death to be approximately eight to ten weeks ago..." Booth nodded.

"That would be consistent with the reports of Brent going missing. According to the reports, a woman called Suzie Ashwood reported him gone nine weeks ago. She said they had been dating." Carissa turned her head to the bones.

"Suzie used Brent. She was a sponge who offered him sex in return for crack. I imagine her reasons for finding him safe were not altogether altruistic." Booth crossed the room. "When he disappeared, she called me. She thought he was with me. She was angry, calling me a whore. I told her that I was against the drug use. I explained that..." Carissa shook her head slowly, as if lost in a network of unfortunate memories. "I knew Brent would never give up his habit for me. I haven't heard from her and I never..." she followed the lines of his bones now, arranged in the perfect form of a human body. Only the strongest of people could continue to see the body without flesh. "I never heard from Brent either. Now I know why." Angela touched her shoulder, the only one of the group who was emotionally connected enough to reach out. "So he's been rotting at the bottom of the Potomac for nine weeks? There's not much dignity in it, is there?" Booth pulled a breath into his lungs, but it was Zach who spoke.

"There's never dignity in death," he said. "Whether we die of a drug overdose or we're murdered or even if we die in the heroic effort of war. We are born dependant and we die dependant." Carissa sighed.

"I wish I could have seen him for what he _could_ have been, instead of what he was." Zach stood close enough to know that her body wasn't altogether steady. "I have a dinner appointment with Liberante tonight," she said suddenly, keeping her emotions in check. "He wants me to go to a function with him tomorrow evening. He said he's meeting with some 'colleagues', by which I assume he means suppliers. I'll need to be fitted out with a wire." Booth nodded.

"Done," he said. "For tonight, I think you should check into a hotel. If Liberante decides to have you checked out, I don't want him turning up that you're staying with an FBI agent." Carissa nodded, dropping her eyes to the canvas drawing once again. "I'll have the Bureau set up some funds for you. They'll wire it into your bank account."

"You can stay at my place," Zach said hurriedly. "I mean... it's at _Hodgins' _place, but you don't mind, right Jack?" Hodgins lifted his head from the microscope.

"Zach, you live three acres away from me. Why would I care?" Angela smirked.

"You might like it at Hodgins place," she said. "He has a tennis court, a swimming pool, acres of forest land, a boat and vintage cars." Carissa lifted a narrow eyebrow skyward, no longer embarrassed by Zach's boyish proposal but rather intrigued by Jack's reaction to Angela's information. "Which reminds me, why do you drive a Mini when you have an Aston Martin in your garage?" Jack slipped his hands into his pockets, rocking backward and forward on his feet.

"Because an Aston Martin Vanquish isn't very subtle and I don't know very many _normal_ entomologists who can afford them. The Mini is my kind of car." Angela nodded and Booth turned to Carissa.

"You see Hodgins' money is a very well kept secret."

"What's a secret?" Brennan asked, balancing a pile of folders and samples. Jack glared at them each in turn, daring them to speak the unspeakable. No one did. "Booth? Can you help me with these?" she asked when a tray of bones slid dangerously to one side. Booth caught them, relieving her of the books that weighed heavily on her arms. "I was doing some checking, which should be your job, and I found that a restaurant owner two blocks away from the drug house said he saw someone fitting Brent Williams' description arguing with a blonde woman ten weeks ago. He said he remembered them because the woman had a tattoo on her hand, that looked like a rosary wrapped around her wrist. Apparently it struck him as odd, because she was so high there was no way she was religious. Booth nodded.

"Jack estimates that Brent died about nine weeks ago and Carissa got a call from Brent's estranged lover around that time, asking where he was. Not to mention that she's the same woman who filed a missing persons report. What I want to know is if Brent is connected to Liberante and if they're both connected to Mario Antinozzi, because so far, there's no evidence that they're connected." Brennan pulled on the round, shiny beads around her neck.

"We're trying, Booth," she said. "There's only so much information we can obtain from one body." Carissa brushed her hair from her forehead.

"Liberante mentioned something today. He sounded like he was making a joke – but it chilled me. I said I wouldn't mess with him – you know, trying to play the 'you're so strong and sexy' card, and he replied 'You wouldn't want to mess with me, baby. I know people. I know stuff.' And even though he laughed, I thought of Brent. If Antinozzi knew something, I have little doubt that Liberante would get him killed." Brennan watched Booth, noticing how his jaw clenched again, and on instinct she reached out, her fingers squeezing his forearm, snapping his reverie.

"Do you want to get some coffee?" she asked, gesturing outside. He closed his eyes for a long moment.

"Yeah. I think I do."

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"You're letting the case effect you," Brennan said, sitting next to him on her couch. "But emotions..."

"You know, sometimes, Bones, people would like it if there was some _flesh_ in your sincerity. Your emotions, sometimes, have as much meat as those skeletons you work on. It's not wrong to let your feelings show through. To let others know you care." Brennan crossed her legs, plucking at a loose thread on her linen skirt. For a long moment she just examined the coloured patterns interwoven through the material.

"I do what I do because I care. But observing things with a clinical detachment is what allows me to do my job. If I allowed my emotions to guide me, to rule, I wouldn't be able to use just facts. I would be using my 'gut', like you. And maybe when you're questioning a suspect that works. But it doesn't work in a lab, Booth. I can't step up to a skeleton and say it 'looks' as though he was shot. I need to prove it. Proof is what sends criminals to jail. Proof is what will get justice for Brent Williams. You need to remember that there was little space for emotions in hard science." He dropped his head back, his eyes falling shut.

"Carissa loved that guy, you know. And your wacky assistant feels emotions because she feels it. However much you want to analyse it, feelings are an integral part of everything, Bones, even science. It's emotions that made you ask me here for coffee. Because you're concerned." Brennan shrugged.

"Concerned for my partner. My friend, yes. But I don't feel any kind of attachment to the deceased. It serves no value." Booth glanced at her sideways.

"Whatever way you pitch it, my concern rubs off unto you and essentially, we're concerned about the same thing. But emotions, they aren't so bad." His hand touched hers, and she opened her fingers to him. "Even if you can't be clinically open. You might feel liberated." Brennan chuckled, leaning into him, resting her cheek against his shoulder, inhaling the musky scent of him. For the first time, since knowing that Carissa was involved in the investigation, she felt secure that he wasn't attracted to her. His lips skimmed her brow, and for the first time in a long time, they stopped being Booth and Brennan. She liked these infrequent moments, and suspected that this was what Booth meant when he said 'liberated'. There was a certain amount of relief. With his breath touching upon her skin, her body tingled in a confusing array of emotions.

"I'm afraid to cross over boundaries. Sometimes I feel like you and I are teetering dangerously on the edge of a line," she admitted, brushing her thumb over the calloused skin of his knuckles. "One minute you're solitary, there for the taking and the next you're inviting beautiful women back to your apartment. It's a good thing I don't like psychology, Booth, because I'd have a hard time figuring you out." He leaned back, his fingers insinuating themselves inside her hair, entwined, massaging her scalp and she felt a shiver tremble along her spine in response to the most intimate touch that had ever transpired between them.

"You'll take what you want, eventually, Bones. You seem like a woman who always gets what she wants." Brennan nodded, mulling over his words, leaning close enough to almost completely bridge the gap between their lips. His breath, infused with the coffee they'd been drinking, touched her mouth, which opened in response to him. His cell-phone chimed, and the mood shattered, forcing them apart with wide, shocked eyes. Immediately, they were making excuses for what had almost taken place. Stress, confusion, emotions – anything that could excuse their lack of professionalism. "Booth," he snapped, pulling himself off her couch, striding towards the door. She watched the stiff lines of his shoulders, impossibly straight, as he moved like a predator. "Okay. Thanks." Snapping his phone shut, he turned to her, his jaw tighter now than before. "Ballistics came back to me and said that the weapon was a 9mm Glock. At least we know what weapon we're looking for. I'll have someone search the river around the area of where the body was found. We might luck out and find the gun." He pulled open the door, stopping just over the threshold. "Bones," he said, his back towards her, "we're far from done, okay?" Her skin prickled.

"We've work to do, Booth. Everything else will have to wait."

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Well, good night everyone!


	5. Chapter 5

**Still Waters**

**Disclaimer: **These characters are mostly not mine.

**Rating: **Eventually M.

**A/N: **If you have read this already, I apologise – the system fucked up and I need to repost it. For those who have been waiting, sorry I didn't catch on and thanks for letting me know!

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"So you belong to a wealthy family, Dr Hodgins?" Carissa asked, turning towards him in her seat. At the wheel of his Mini, Jack had banished his colleague to the back seat, favouring the pretty Italian as a companion passenger. Although he somewhat resented that his family's wealth had been disclosed to Carissa Romano and his boss – his friend – was still oblivious. He wasn't entirely sure why he didn't want Temperance to know It seemed like a dark, skeletal secret. One that was almost dirty in it's rarity. He hated that people might perceive him in a different light. And Brennan was a phenomenal scientist. He didn't want to compromise what working relations they shared.

"I have wealth that was obtained through genetics not through hard work. Therefore I don't deem it to be something worthy of mentioning. Or flaunting." He thought of Angela's reaction to his money – and how she seemed almost to view him as a completely different man. As though money made him someone else. She didn't see him as Jack Hodgins, entomologist. She perceived him, all of a sudden, as Jack Hodgins, multimillionaire. It took weeks of banter before the comfort returned between them. Before Angela saw the man and not the money.

"There's not many people like you, Dr Hodgins," Carissa said, turning her eyes to the darkening streets of Washington, D.C. "Money changes people. Makes them bitter and greedy." She curled a strand of hair around her finger. "Like Liberante. He is a man who craves wealth. Who strives upon the gratification he feels when he acquires a new dealer. But essentially, he's nothing but a middle man. A man who buys drugs from another dealer and supplies them to someone else. It's a deadly, pointless chain. A money-making scheme. At least you put your money to good use. Right?" Jack shrugged.

"I didn't use the money for my education. I worked as a gardener for awhile during college." Zach leaned forward.

"I didn't know that," he said, almost indignant. Jack caught his eye in the rear-view mirror. "But I suppose, with a penchant for plants and bugs, there seems no better place to work." Carissa turned in her seat, resting her chin there, watching the anthropology student with wide-eyed wonder. Jack noticed this about his colleague. People were endlessly amazed that he cared not about beer and parties, but about studying and learning. He was a genuine geek.

"And what about you, Mr Addy? Does this job pay for college?" Carissa asked and Zach shrugged.

"It pays better than most assistantships, yes. Plus Hodgins was kind enough to let me live above his garage – which is kind of like having your own place anyway because it's huge." Carissa sighed.

"I wish I had the state of mind to continue my education in Italy. My father, he resented me leaving for America. I was only eighteen – and even though I was street smart, I had plenty to learn academically. I think it's amazing that you guys study hard and reap the benefits of your wisdom. I learnt more about bones and particulates today than I could ever have thought imaginable. And in two hours, I am expected to dine with Marciano Liberante, discussing the wonders of travel and exciting sex – when the details of Brent's murder are so precisely strewn though my mind." Zach's brows drew together and he trailed his fingers through his hair.

"You talk about sex with him?" Carissa dropped her emerald eyes to the floor, a rosy blush dusting the high arches of her cheek bones – visible even though her Mediterranean skin tone.

"I'm required to do quite a bit more than talk, Mr Addy," she said softly. "However repulsive it may be." Jack turned the radio on and the awkward admission was drawn to a close by the sound of classical music, soft and melodic – a personal favourite. He wanted to comment that the harmony between the violin and the cello was inspiring, but he sensed that Zach was in no mood to talk music and Carissa was in no mood to talk at all.

Later, when Jack was bored of watching TV, he took the ten minute stroll across his property to the apartment over the garage, listening to the grasshoppers song and the familiar woodland noises. Despite never having any specific attachment to money, he did like the privacy his land afforded him – and he could easily complete his jogging routine through the uneven woodland paths, across the pond.

Carissa met him on her way down the stairs, wearing a black dress that hung just below her knee, that the FBI had delivered and a silk scarf draped over her shoulders. Her hair, the colour of a midnight sky in winter, was pulled into a diamond clip that was shaped like a butterfly as she awkwardly descended the stairs. "Hi Dr Hodgins," she said, adjusting her scarf until it hid the generous curves of her breasts. "Do you expect to drag Mr Addy away from the television tonight? He has been glued to Star Trek marathon." Jack smiled, pressing against the wall and allowing her past.

"Have a nice evening Carissa," he said and she nodded.

"This is like asking that I jump a hundred metres high, Dr Hodgins," she said. "It's a damned impossibility." With her hand on the door, Jack stopped her.

"Take care, won't you?" he said, wondering where his concern for this girl he hardly knew had appeared from. When he looked at her, he felt no spark of attraction. He appreciated that she was beautiful – but he didn't have any desire to touch her. Yet there was an inexplicable concern that he felt when he watched her leave, walking into the presence of a ruthless criminal like Liberante.

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"So darling," Marciano said, his dark eyes twinkling in the candlelight, "what did you do with the remainder of your day? Did you shop? What a spectacular dress." Carissa smiled easily, hoping that the contempt she felt was still veiled by her ability to act. She needed to be fluid and open, as though she didn't suspect her lover was a murderer.

"I did," she said, pulling a martini flavoured olive into her mouth. "I bought new shoes and this bracelet," she held her wrist out to his expert eye, the simulated diamond was hardly expensive and she suspected he would know as much, but he didn't comment when the facets twinkled. "And what about you? How did you spend your day?" she asked, tracing her lower lip with the red cocktail stir that tasted of alcohol. She didn't feel like drinking, and each mouthful scorched her throat. Carissa preferred to distract herself instead.

"I spent today tiding up some paper work," Marciano said. "And by tiding up, I do mean 'tiding'. The IRS have been looking into my taxes, which I just _hate_. My accountant and I… we disappeared a few thousand." He chuckled to himself, reaching out to cover her hand with his own. "I shouldn't say such things, should I, darling? But I can't help it. That's what I like about you. You really _are_ just a pretty face." Carissa smiled, adapting the same vacant expression she always did when she wanted Liberante to think she was oblivious.

"How would one disappear some money, then?" she asked, stirring her drink aimlessly.

"You would need a good accountant – a good liar and a ruthless bastard, too. The last thing I need is the Feds on my ass, especially when they're s obvious about it, anyway. Look outside, honey, do you see the silver sedan? Does it look somehow… out of place here? There you have a Mercedes, a new one, bought this year. A BMW, with nice shiny alloys, a super slinky Porsche and a Ford. One hundred percent government issue, complete with a suit clad, Rayban wearing federal agent. Doesn't he know it's not cool to wear sunglasses at night?" Marciano lifted his glass to the window pane, chuckling to himself. Carissa felt her underarms prickle with sweat. Did he suspect her involvement with the agents in the car? Did her speechless expression give the secret of her betrayal away?

"How can you be sure they're watching you?" she asked with a loose shrug, deciding that perhaps she did need a drink after all.

"I heard a whisper from a friend who knows a friend who's in the FBI, that they think I disappeared more than just money. Like I _personally_ went out a shot someone." Their waitress replaced the empty salad bowls with pasta and chicken with a basket of Mediterranean bread. "Of course they're barking up the wrong tree, but if they want to waste money trailing me," he shrugged, "let them." Carissa sprinkled parmesan on her pasta, watching her companion as he lifted his hand, a ruby encrusted ring glinting on his smallest finger. Probably worth a fortune, she suspected.

"I don't imagine you as a violent man, Marciano," she said. "Besides, getting rid of money is one thing. Getting rid of a human being is something else entirely, right?" Liberante shrugged.

"Are we talking hypothetically here?" he asked, his thick dark brows lifted in question, almost mocking her. It felt as though he saw right through her façade, into the darkest recesses of her motive for infiltration. At first she wanted to be part of a crime fighting adventure. Now she wanted justice for Brent. Whoever had called in police, warning of a Liberante victim at the bottom of river, knew him. Knew who done it and wanted to see the criminal put in prison for his crimes. Carissa felt the same now, too.

"Of course," she said with a tight laugh.

"Hypothetically, I don't imagine that murder takes much planning. It's all about hiding the body, isn't it?" He shrugged. "Like I said, I know people. I don't pretend that they're not dangerous people. I grew up in a family where I was always surrounded by powerful people. People who kill if they don't get what they need. Or want. I'd say there are twice as many unsolved murders as there are solved. And sometimes, when a body is never found, they're written off as runaways or…" Liberante sneered. "There's a lot of scum on our streets, Carissa – and I can't say I pity their deaths." She smiled and nodded, as if she were dutifully agreeing.

"I don't know if I have the presence of mind to be a murderer," she said. "Or perhaps I have too much presence of mind. I'm not clever enough. I wouldn't know how to clean my hands. Or where to hide the body." Her stomach tightened as she recalled where Brent was hidden. He was treated like vermin, tossed into a river where it was hoped he'd never be found. She speared her pasta, hating that she still had lingering feelings for Brent.

"Well I'm afraid I can't help you there, honey," Liberante said. "All I can think about is getting you back to my apartment. I have some party favours," he winked and she felt sick, knowing that he was proposing the use of cocaine. Liberante didn't hide his recreational use of the drug – but she loathed that he did it without impunity. She loathed felt queasy every time she remembered his suggestion that he 'eat it from her'. When she had refused, she saw a angry streak flash through his eyes and he responded 'what the fuck do I pay you for?'

The expression in Zach Addy's face burned her soul, for he looked horrified that she was expected to have sex with Liberante and act like she enjoyed it. It was worse because she felt strangely attracted to the awkward assistant of Dr Brennan. He was cute and innocent yet immeasurably intelligent. She wanted to teach him about life, away from the rigid rules of science. Yet she knew he would never be attracted to a woman whose job included a casual fuck in a mob boss's bedroom.

"You look sad darling," Liberante said. "But wait until you see the stuff I have, baby, you will definitely be smiling then."

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"Carissa?" Zach stirred, noticing that the neon clock on his bedside cabinet red two thirty. In the living room, he heard the shuffle of feet and climbed out of bed, rubbing his eyes. "Is that you?" Hodgins had left at one, staggering across property towards the main house – Zach didn't think he'd have come back, for Jack had emptied seven tins of beer and had been in no condition to do anything other than sleep.

"I'm sorry I woke you," Carissa whispered, her body turned towards the long windows that overlooked the pond. Zach had often appreciated the view from the little apartment he resided in. He paid Jack a small amount of rent – purely because it was kind for him to permit Zach the opportunity to stay there, and he knew plenty of college students who couldn't afford a bedroom let alone a fully functional apartment.

"It's alright," he said. "How did your date with Liberante go?" Carissa lifted her shoulders, bare except for the narrow straps of her dress. She looked athletically toned, with a nice curve in her spine, straight shoulders and a proud stance. Yet there was a certain deflation in the way she stood now, watching as the rippling water contorted the moonlight. When she turned, the lamp that he always left on, caught the side of her face and he saw the dark reddish ring around her eye. "Oh my God," he whispered. "What happened?" And for a long moment, Carissa didn't speak.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-


	6. Chapter 6

**Title: **Still Waters

**Disclaimer: **No infringement intended.

**Rating: **T to become M.

**A/N: **Hi there. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and thanks for bearing with me whilst I bring the characters together in a believable (hopefully) way. I don't think any of our favourite characters are likely to jump into bed without thought. So for the 'M rated lovers' out there, something will happen I promise. And just think – for every one sex scene, you're really going to get three! Anyway, please continue to review and feed my muse.

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"You have to take Carissa off the case," Zach said to Booth first thing the next morning. "Have you seen her?" Hodgins turned in his chair, eyebrow raised with the kind of foggy drunkenness that was commonly associated with being hung-over.

"Chill out Z-Man," Angela said, dropping her hand to his shoulder. "She's old enough to know what she's doing – and if she wanted off the case, she'd ask. Also, as a fiercely independent Italian woman, I imagine she'd be mightily pissed if she thought you were trying to fight her battles for her." Zach tugged on the collar of his lab coat, catching Brennan's eye as she climbed the stairs to the quarantined lab. The table containing Brent Williams' personal belongings was covered and Brennan immediately pulled the sheet back.

"He hit her," Zach said, his knuckles white. "Because she didn't let him snort cocaine off her breasts. She is already forced to have sex with him. Surely the cocaine thing goes beyond the call of duty?" Booth pressed his fingers to his temple, pulling a weary sigh into his lungs.

"First of all," he replied a little testily, "Carissa is not _forced_ to do anything. She contacted us about incorporating her services into serious crime investigation. Second of all, I would agree with Angela on this one. You might want to tread carefully because Carissa is not going to appreciate your interference." Brennan pulled her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck, her eyes roaming along the faces of her colleagues.

"Perhaps we could focus on the case?" she suggested. "I noticed this," she said held a weathered black wallet for their attention, as though she were offering them the answers to the universe. Everyone stared. "I don't think the victim was buying drugs when he died." Booth nodded.

"I thought about this too," he said. "If Brent was meeting with someone to complete a sale, he'd have had his wallet with him. Which concerns me, because it would suggest he was, in fact, meeting a friend. Or at least someone he knew." Brennan replaced the wallet on the table, completing the line of neat belongings.

"Why does that concern you?" Hodgins asked, leaning back into his chair, his voice husky and tired.

"Because if he was murdered by someone he knew then he wasn't murdered by Marciano Liberante. Which means I am essentially wasting my time on an unfortunate but nonetheless, unrelated murder." Brennan folded her arms, her eyebrow lifted in cold irritation.

"Murder is murder," she said. "And I find you increasingly hypocritical, Booth," she said. "When my sympathy is wavered one way, you say I should respect the deaths of all humans, and yet you class the death of Brent Williams as a 'waste of your time'?" Angela rested her elbows on the counter, dropping her chin into her hands. Booth opened his mouth to retort then she interjected.

"Why couldn't Liberante be the person he knew? You already know he bought drugs from the guy. Maybe their relationship was deeper than we know. Instead of fighting over the details you should probably check that out. And while you're at it, find an address for Suzie Ashwood." Booth closed his mouth, blinking at her.

"Why are we taking orders from a forensic artist?" he asked, slipping his hands into his pockets.

"Because you are wasting valuable time arguing?" Zach suggested with a shrug. "And each minute you stall is another minute Carissa has to unnecessarily work undercover. So I'm with Angela on this one." Brennan pulled her gloves off, tossing them into the trash can.

"As it happens," Booth said, "I already have an address for Suzie Ashwood. Just in case you think I'm kicking back while you guys are working so hard, squinting into your microscopes. I've been doing some old-fashioned police work," he lifted his eyes to the ceiling, running his gaze along the shiny surfaces of the lab. "And old fashioned is something you techies don't understand." Brennan unbuttoned her lab coat.

"Just because our investigative method is different to yours, doesn't mean you can shun it. In fact, without us, you'd be..." she pulled her lip between her teeth.

"For dramatic effect, Dr Brennan, I believe the correct verb is 'fucked'," Zach offered, and Booth turned, blinking in disbelief.

"This is not real life," he said, swiping his card and descending the stairs. "Who uses 'verb' and 'fucked' in the same sentence? You've got to be kidding me..." his voice faded as he strode away, talking to himself. Zach shrugged his shoulders, and Brennan smirked lopsidedly.

"I doubt he'll ever understand," she soothed. "Booth is..." Angela smiled naughtily.

"Oh honey, we know what Booth is. At least _I_ do and I appreciate that you don't want to piss him off. Or perhaps you do. Can you imagine the make-up sex?" she forced a tremor through her body. "Or should I use the adjective 'fucking'?" Only Hodgins recognised the mockery in her tone, for Zach was oblivious and Brennan was already moving to follow Booth, making her point to ignore all Angela's references to Booth and sex. "Those two," she said to their retreating backs, "it's like I'm waiting with bated breath for them to toss down the truth on the table." Zach folded his arms.

"What truth?" he asked.

"Zach," Hodgins said slowly. "Dude. Sex. Do you know anything about sex?"

"I don't see how sex has anything to do with Dr Brennan and Agent Booth," he said, his eyes shifting between Angela and Hodgins, silently begging them to explain their riddles – for he hated when people didn't speak literally.

"Oh sweetie," Angela said, slipping her arm around his shoulders, "it's all about the sex."

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Angela Montenegro had often thought artists were the freest people on earth. During college, it was permissible to be wild, because artists didn't especially need to study and, hung over or not, she didn't have to concentrate much to produce something that was atheistically pleasing. Since joining the Jeffersonian, she'd come to realise that art was a vague word and some artists had to work harder than others. These days, she considered her paint brush to be a foe – not a friend. Each blunt pencil was a reminder of how difficult her job was – and how much she missed drawing simple things.

Brent Williams' body had brought with it a complex myriad of emotions. Especially from Carissa, who had irreversible ties to the man. Despite not knowing who he was, Angela saw the effects the case had on everyone, from Brennan and Booth to Zach and herself.

"Hey," she heard the familiar concern and her tense shoulders eased, her body sinking into her chair. "It's lunch time," Jack said, dropping his hand to her shoulder, his fingertips brushing her neck. She hadn't noticed the time slip by, or her hand moving over the canvas, for that matter. "Where have you been?" Hodgins asked, perching at the edge of her desk, drawing his tongue over his lower lip, his eyes dropping to her drawing. It was the first piece she'd done in what felt like centuries that wasn't work related. She was surprised to see the road her hand had taken, for abstract wasn't usually her forte. Today, she was impressed at her own efforts.

"I've been contemplating murder," she said at last and Jack's blue eyes twinkled mischievously, widening with the childlike delight that made her smile. A little.

"You? Contemplating murder? You're the calmest person here. Cool as a cucumber and all that. Who would _you_ want to murder?" Angela slipped her pencil into her hair, pushing away the drawing which, to a casual observer meant absolutely nothing but to her, was probably a detailed explanation of her emotions.

"I don't want to murder anyone," she said, folding her arms beneath her breasts. "I'm contemplating what it takes to become a murderer. To commit an act so unforgivable as to take someone else's life. None of us should have that right." Hodgins slipped his hands into his jeans and she noticed he wasn't wearing his lab coat.

"No one does," he said. "That's why we have a justice system, Angela." She shrugged. "You're going to drive yourself crazy," Jack continued, "if you don't have some lunch and time away from the lab." She met his eye and found herself easing in response to her friend. Hodgins had the soft concern that reminded her of her college friends. He wasn't as uptight as some of their fellow scientists and she loved that, underneath the rigid entomologist, Jack Hodgins was still humorous and normal.

"You are asking me out on a _date_?" she asked, her eyebrow raised, a smirk playing on her lips. Jack's spine straightened with renewed confidence.

"Is that such a bad thing?" he replied and she pushed her chair back. "I imagine you've been on dates with worse people than me." Angela shook off her lab coat, draping it across the back of her chair, mentally recalling all the maniacs she'd dated and all the disastrous dinners she'd been forced to endure. With a chuckle, she turned back to her colleague – nice, safe Jack and nodded.

"That would be a fairly accurate assumption," she admitted. "Mostly, people don't understand that not all artists draw pretty pink flowers and kitties." Locking her office door behind her, and slipping the key into her pants pocket, Angela lifted her eyes skyward in remembrance of all the times she'd been forced to diplomatically explain the inner workings of her job. "At least with you, I don't have to soften the blow. Hi, I'm Angela, I draw dead people." Jack smiled, showing teeth.

"Nice to meet you Angela. I'm Jack and I sift through animal shit. How about Italian for lunch?" Angela thought about their wacky job descriptions and she was enormously grateful that this would be one date she didn't need to lie to. In the recent past, she'd struggled to conjure a definable pro about her duty as a forensic artist. Men were turned off by the thought of rotten flesh and skulls. Even her personal achievement in the Angelator didn't strike particularly interesting conversation because most people didn't understand why she needed to run murder scenarios through software.

"Italian seems fitting, doesn't it?" she said as they walked the short distance to his allocated parking space, two slots down from Brennan's. "With everything that's been happening." Hodgins unlocked his Mini.

"Yes it does," he agreed. "I just hope 'everything that's been happening' will be over soon."

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"Where were you last night, Bones? I tried to call." Booth felt as though their time together these days consisted of being inside his car, driving through the slums of DC.

"I rescheduled my date. I didn't get home until late." He hated the inexplicable stabbing of irritation inside his chest – as though Temperance had somehow betrayed him with her admission. Had she forgotten about their 'almost' kiss in her office? Was it really so easy for her to pretend emotions were fickle and often meaningless? Booth passed his palm across his cheek, wishing that he had something he could say that would adequately convey his feelings without making him sound petty. "What did you do last night?" Brennan asked, propping her cheek against her hand, the top of her head pressed against the window as she observed the tell-tale movements of his jaw as he chewed the inside of his mouth.

"I worked late," he said. "I had to make some calls in order to find an address for this girl. I have no time for 'dating'." She didn't miss the clipped edge of his tone, or the way his shoulders jerked. Brennan, irritated, dropped her hand to her thigh, exhaling a sigh.

"If you don't think I can adequately do my job in the time allocated you should talk to Dr Goodman because I personally think I'm doing a good job, considering that lousy evidence you've turned up so far. Especially considering how many hours _you've_ apparently put in." A heavy, meaningful silence fell between them, a shrouding blanket of gloom. Booth, with white knuckles, scanned the street signs and door numbers before stopping outside a one storey building. "Where is Carissa?" Brennan asked when he killed the engine and pushed the car door open.

"She'll be spending the night at Liberante's. When he leaves in the morning, we need her to install an audio device in his study. Zach won't be too happy, I'm sure, what with his crush and all." Brennan shot him a glare, slipping her hands into her pockets.

"He cares about her," she said. "I don't see how he deserves to be chastised for that. Besides, he's not the one risking the life of a twenty four year old girl. Since Liberante is apparently so dangerous." Booth locked his SUV, spinning on his heel, taking wide, tense strides along the sidewalk.

"Look, Bones, I am not directly responsible for Carissa being on the team. You already know how much I worry about the girl." Brennan nodded sharply.

"Yes I do," she replied, her tone layered with meaning. "I think perhaps Zach isn't the only one with a crush." She smirked, keeping her tone impassively light. She was good at feigning objectivity – even with her heart was pounding inside with irrational jealousy. Or something that resembled it. Booth released a hissing sigh, sounding like a pressure valve.

"You know that's not true," he snapped. "Besides, for someone who is carrying around a green eyed monster, it didn't stop you going out for a late night date, did it? And you call _me_ a hypocrite?" He dropped his hand to the heavy wood door of a nondescript white washed building. Brennan remained silent, her lips tight as the door swung open and a slender woman appeared, dressed in faded denims that were especially worn at her knees and a red shirt. Her feet were bare and her blonde hair looked as though it hadn't been brushed in days. Brennan saw the darkened rings around her eyes – a sign of weary, sleepless nights. Her skin was sallow and her irises were hauntingly bleak.

"Yes?" she asked testily, watching Brennan with unveiled contempt.

"Suzanne Ashwood?" Booth asked, flashing his badge. "I'm Agent Booth with the FBI and this is Temperance Brennan she's a forensic anthropologist with the Jeffersonian Institute in DC." Suzie tilted her head, blinking slowly.

"Am I supposed to be impressed or something?" she asked. "Big words and blah? What do you want?" Brennan wondered if this woman had any idea what big words and extraordinary things her former lover could have been capable of. Somehow she doubted the Suzie Ashwood had ever contemplated a life of success.

"Do you know this man?" Booth passed a digitally rendered image of Brent that had been drawn and fed into the Angelator, created as a wire-frame image and then texture wrapped. Carissa said the likeness was uncanny.

"Yes," Suzie said, her eyes lingering on the glossy image for a long moment before handing it back to Booth. "It's Brent. Brent Williams." Brennan nodded.

"Yes, _we_ know who he is. We wanted to make sure you do too. Nice tattoo, by the way." Suzie lifted her hand and Booth caught the image of a rosary curled around her wrist and a crucifix drawn into the top of her hand. "You don't strike me as a religious woman," Brennan continued, her tone more contemptuous than she would have liked. Suzie remained impassive, shoving her hand into her jeans' pocket.

"Don't I? Well, there you have it. Why are you showing me a picture of Brent? Finally taking his missing persons' case seriously? Took you long enough." Booth tucked the photograph into his jacket pocket, glancing beyond Suzie's head, into the small house she lived in. "See something that interests you, Agent Booth?" she asked, standing on her toes, impeding his view. "I guess you'll need a warrant to get it then, won't you?" Brennan exhaled.

"You're not very cooperative, are you?" she snapped. "Which is a shame, since you're a suspect in a murder investigation." Her statement did not have the desired effect on Suzie Ashwood.

"Really? Do you practice being insufferably boring or does it come naturally? I have things to be doing. Now unless you say something interesting, I'm going to close the door-"

"Miss Ashwood," Booth said, his own patience slipping, "Brent Williams was found murdered at the bottom of the Potomac. You were one of the last people to see him alive so why don't you tell us what happened, hmm? Save us some time because frankly, I'm getting a little tired of being stone-walled by you people. Did you kill him for his drugs? Did he stop supplying you with cocaine?" Suzie recoiled, her cheeks displaying the first hint of colour since their arrival.

"Brent got himself killed," she said. "Ain't nothing to do with me. He thought he could play with the big boys and he was wrong. Now, unless you've come to arrest me, ciao." The door swung shut, slamming into place. Booth blinked at the barrier, his knuckles white with irritation.

"I don't like that woman," Brennan said, turning on her heel. Booth snorted.

"She didn't seem overly appreciative of you, either. But then you weren't offering many pleasantries." Brennan didn't stop, her stride intensifying as she sought to remove her frustrations from her body.

"Oh, so her attitude is my fault?" she asked, her boots hitting the tarmac with pointed thuds. Booth, taller than she, had to move quick to maintain her angry movements.

"I'm saying you didn't aid the process," he explained, unlocking his car. The sound of the disabling alarm echoed through the buildings and the ominously quiet street. Brennan kicked a pebble with her shoe, the rounded stone pinging off the shiny alloy on his front wheel. "Hey!" Booth snapped. "Watch it, Bones. Don't take your frustrations out on me. Or my Chevrolet." He peered at the metal, tarnished by the stone's impact.

"I don't have time for pleasantries," Brennan said. "And that woman was rude before I even spoke." When Booth inhaled, his chest protruded, his weariness evident.

"You didn't help," he repeated.

"You're just angry, Booth, because of what happened in the car. You're just angry because you can't have me." She spun, yanking the car door open and a gasp caught in her throat when his fingers encircled her wrist. She spun, prepared to land him a kick in the groin, when the door slammed behind her and she found herself pressed against the side of his SUV. His eyes burned with the fiery intensity of a man who was immeasurably pissed off.

"Can't I?" he asked, sandwiching her between himself and his car. She could easily have struggled out of his grip and he saw the inclination there to do just that. But she was frozen – held in place by the piercing darkness of his stare. She hated that her date had been so dull and she had no intention of seeing him again. She hated that hadn't informed Booth of this fact. It pleased her to see the jealousy in his eyes and it pleased her more to have his body against hers, physically perfect and arousing in its masculinity. "Your mouth can lie, Bones, but your body can't."

He released her, tossing his keys into the air and catching them in his big hand. When he turned from her, she missed the smirk pulling at his lips.

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End file.
